


Run My Fingers Through Your Hair (and watch the lights go wild)

by maybe_we_were



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Hair Braiding, One Shot, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_we_were/pseuds/maybe_we_were
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha's hair is bothering her.  Enter Steve Rogers to save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run My Fingers Through Your Hair (and watch the lights go wild)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't been on in forever!! Things have been busy, but I have this new fic, which makes me happy. As always, I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> These lovely characters belong to Stan Lee/Marvel.

Some days hair can be frustrating.

Natasha would know because her long hair keeps falling in her face, obstructing the view of her uniform, which she is trying to mend. 

Typically, this isn’t an issue.  Her hair was cut short a while ago, and it was behaving until recently.  Now it seems like it is _always_ a problem.

Trying not to get frustrated, she tucks her hair behind her ear before working on the task at hand.  Sowing is actually pretty soothing, the back and forth of the needle going through cloth.  It takes precision as well, which is no problem for her with her attention to detail.

She’s just leaning her head forward again to get a better view of her stitching when a lock escapes from behind her ear and falls in front of her eyes.

Really. 

_Again?_

JARVIS probably has a good shot at her _I-am-extremely-annoyed_ face right now. 

She should just cut it off, life would be so much simpler.  A frustrated sound leaves her lips as she puts down her suit to fix her hair.

“You know, I think I can help you with that.”

The voice she hears startles her, heartbeat picking up for a few seconds, before she recognizes who it is.  The tone of the voice is cautious, as if worried to say too much, yet somehow confident.

Natasha turns her head and, just as expected, Steve is behind her in the kitchen.  He has his two palms flat against the island, a glass of orange juice mostly finished set between them.  He must have the day off, as evidenced by his black t-shirt and blue jeans, far from his red, white, and blue uniform.  The dark color of his shirt contrasts with his blonde hair, making his blue eyes stand out even more than usual. 

A smile flits across his lips, probably because he was able to sneak up on her for once, and Natasha has to fight to keep her voice steady when she addresses him.

“And what, exactly, did you have in mind?”

She’s not entirely sure if he means to help with her suit (which at this point would be definitely welcome) or with the locks of hair that keep falling in her face. 

“Do you trust me?”

Blue eyes bore into hers, watching, waiting.  They’ve had this conversation before, a couple of months ago when they were on the run from Hydra.  A kiss on the escalator, a borrowed truck, and his body covering hers as ash and debris rains down on them flashes through her mind. 

Does she trust him?

Absolutely.

She’s not one to voice her feelings often, to put her heart on her sleeve.  But if anyone deserves that from her, it is Steve.

“I do,” she answers, head bobbing down with one curt nod, “but if you mess it up…”

She lets her sentence trail, one eyebrow arched to show she means business. (When doesn’t she?)  She does this even though she knows he would _never_ do anything on purpose to make her upset.

One side of his mouth tilts up and she can tell he is trying not to grin. 

“It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise.  Do you have some..,” he stops for a minute, clearly searching for the right words, “hair pins?  I think it only takes a few.”

Natasha puts up her index finger, indicating that she does have them but needs to get them.  She moves with purpose to the bathroom, grabs the bobby pins on the counter, and returns to the living room to find Steve on the couch, his body angled to the side.  She expects him to take the pins out of her hand as she offers them, but he shakes his head no.

“I’ll need your help.  Can you place those on the coffee table for now?”

She does as he asks, more than curious about what he plans to do and how she can assist.  Sitting down on the couch next to him, she can feel his fingers press into her shoulders, moving her so that her back is to him.  Fingers that then begin to comb through her hair, parting it down the middle.  He has half of her hair in one hand, the other skirting around her waist to grab her hand. 

She catches on to what he is thinking, reaching back and holding the other half of her hair so it doesn’t get in his way.  She can feel him doing something, a small tug on her scalp here and there.  It doesn’t hurt, of course, Steve being gentle as always. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him take the bobby pins off the table, feel his body press forward every time he goes to reach them. 

She’s lucky, the thickness of her curls make the bobby pins easier for him to use. 

A few moments later, Steve’s warm fingers curl around hers and she lets go, letting Steve work on the other section of her hair. 

All she hears is the light sound of the radio playing through the sound system.  She can _feel_ his breath as it skims her now bare neck.  Her senses are on high alert, hyper aware of every tiny shift. There’s something intimate about it all, which makes Natasha’s heart rate pick up again.  The come-hither smell of his cologne is not helping.  She runs a hand down the front of her jeans in an attempt to calm down.

Just as Natasha is about to take a deep breath, she feels one last tug and Steve’s hands still. 

“All finished.”

She’s dying to know what it looks like.  She knows all of her hair is pinned up, but she’s not sure how. 

Impulsively, she looks back at him and takes his hand, pulling them both off the couch and towards the direction of the bathroom.  Not reading too much into the way his hand tightens around hers, she flips on the light switch and looks at her reflection.  She’s a little speechless, because he did such a great job with it.  It looks like she went to a professional, not a fellow Avenger.  Her auburn locks are twisted around in curls and discreetly tucked at the nape of her neck. 

“Steve, it looks beautiful.”

Her eyes shift up to meet his in the mirror.  He smiles wistfully, and before she thinks about it too much, she asks, “Where did you learn to pin hair like this?” 

She knows about his artistic ability, so it’s no surprise that what he can do with charcoal and paper he can also create with his hands.  Still, it feels like there is more to the story.  Her fingers from her free hand delicately touch the intricate style while she waits for his answer. 

She can see his chest rise and fall as he takes a deep breath, readjusting his hand that is still securely locked with hers. 

“Well…” he seems hesitant, “this is how my mom used to pin her hair up when she worked around the house.”

He pauses for a moment, shuffling a little closer so that she can practically feel his body behind hers, his eyes flicking down before meeting hers again.  The blue of his irises are soft but striking as he continues. 

“I remember sitting on her bed when I was little, watching her pin up her hair.  Sometimes she would be working in the kitchen when her hair would get in the way.  She’d quickly pin it and say to me, “Works every time,” with a small smile.  There was something so routine about it.  It always reminded me of home.” 

The words he shared are far more intimate than the way his hands touched her a bit ago.  It’s both scary and thrilling at the same time. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, both for him pinning her hair and for sharing part of his past.  She thinks it must have been hard for him to recall, even though it was a good memory. 

“My pleasure,” Steve replies, voice slightly lower.

Natasha checks out her hair one more time in the mirror, smiling at how a style from the 1930s suits her. 

Steve, who is still behind her, looks like he has something to say.  His mouth opens and closes a few times, as if the words were escaping on their own without being heard.  It only takes a second for him to compose himself.

“It looks really natural on you.” 

She turns around to look at him, to really _look_ at him.  His eyes darken just a tad, and not in a bad way. 

So if Natasha happens to ask Steve to help her fix her hair the next day instead of doing it herself, it has _absolutely_ nothing to do with the way Steve smiles at her request.


End file.
